Remember
by ibohemianam
Summary: A new case, pre-Reichenbach, takes our heroes through the streets of London, but something is different.  Why does this case mean so much to John?
1. Prologue

There was a sudden, sharp bang, a loud report that echoed in the narrow alley, and Sherlock froze. He turned and dashed back around the corner, coattails flying out behind him. A cold terror froze his paralyzed mind.

He couldn't be too late. He couldn't.

A quick turn, just in time to see his dear friend (friend? When did _that_ happen?) tackle Smith to the ground, to hear the clatter of the handgun as it fell. Sherlock hurtled down the alley. He knew that John, plucky though he was, was in his current state no match for Smith.

He saw a pale hand—whose?—dart out, snatch the gun up from where it lay. Holmes gave a shout, but it was drowned in another terrifyingly loud shot that whizzed by his head, then another, and he dove into a great rugby tackle of his own, flying through the air, pounding into Smith with a breathtaking whoosh of air. The gun was still in Smith's hand, and he reached for it, but then there was another deafening bang.

And a heart-numbing cry from behind him.

A sudden blind wave of rage roared through his body, and with a brilliant left hook, he floored the man. Panting, he turned and blanched.

John leaned heavily against the opposing alley wall, trembling hands clasped around his side. Seeing his (rather) alarmed expression, the doctor was good enough to murmur, "I'm fine, Sherlock," before sinking to the ground, eyes clouded. Sherlock stared in abject horror, paralyzed, until he licked his lips in a nervous gesture and called out hoarsely, "Lestrade!" his eyes riveted on the sight before him. Hurried footsteps from the end of the alley echoes closer, and he threw himself into a crouch beside his companion, who was lost in a dead faint, and pressed his scarf to the wound. Within moments, his hands were covered with blood, and he dimly heard Lestrade's grumblings behind him turn into a muffled curse as he fumbled with his phone.

His hands were trembling now, as he muttered feverishly to himself, or John—he didn't really know which. At this point, they were one and the same. Helpless.


	2. Chapter 1

_Hello. :)  
>This is my first<em> Sherlock story..._ I hope it's not too out of character-let me know. Also, I'm not from anywhere near London, so Google maps was (and probably will continue to be) my primary source for this. Hmmm... I don't think I'm forgetting anything. _**Disclaimer**_? Not mine. Any of this. Except for John's dressing gown. :P Enough babbling. At the risk of sounding like a butler, Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Four days earlier…<strong>

John squinted and rubbed his eyes furiously. Sunlight streamed in through the drawn curtains, blinding him as he struggled to sit up in bed. The sheets were a rumpled mess around his legs; his nightshirt stuck to his back and his hair tufted and clung in odd places. Ah, yes… It had been a rough night. He reached down, tossed aside the sheets, and swung his legs over to the edge of the bed. He stood abruptly. A sudden bolt of pain shot down his right leg, and he collapsed with a startled grunt, landing with a thump on the hard wood floor. He lay there for a moment, sprawled on his back, staring at the pockmarked ceiling, more surprised than hurt. Painfully rolling over onto his stomach, he heaved himself to his feet, all his weight on one leg, left hand twitching reflexively. Leaning heavily against the bedpost, he limped to the bedroom door and cautiously pried it open.

"Sherlock?" he called down to the sullen door below him.

No reply.

John turned, awkwardly supporting himself on the door jamb as he glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. It was already half past nine.

Muttering under his breath, he grabbed his dressing gown from its hook on his bedroom door and hopped awkwardly to the balustrade, eyeing the flight of stairs below him. Gripping the handrail with both white-knuckled hands, he gritted his teeth and slowly, painfully eased down the stairs, every other step a hollow boom, every other step a lightning-rod of pain. At long last, he reached the landing, pale and trembling.

"Sherlock!" he croaked again, trembling with the effort of remaining upright, "Sherlock!"

His head was pounding, and a cold sweat dampened his nightshirt. He reached for the door knob, but stumbled, sliding down the wall into a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, ears ringing, world grey. He faded in and out for how long? He didn't remember.

Suddenly, the door was open, and Sherlock was there, coat and scarf in hand. He nearly fell over John in his usual headlong rush and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Sher… lock…" John mumbled.

"John!" those sharp eyes widened, "What—" his eyes narrowed, "John, you're delirious. Come," he hauled John into a sitting position, where he sagged against the wall. Sherlock dragged him to his feet. John swayed dangerously, eyes clouded. He took a tentative step towards the door, then cried out in pain and collapsed against the wall.

"Sherlock," he gasped, "I can't walk again. My cane—where is—?"

"Nonsense, John," Sherlock half-dragged, half carried him into the flat and deposited him on the couch, "Lie down." He hooked his foot around the door and swung it shut, flinging his own coat and scarf onto the armchair by the fireplace.

There was silence for a little while in the sitting room as John colored deeply as his mind cleared and he realized that he had collapsed into a delirious, heaving mess in front of his flatmate, who had just _carried_ him like a baby into the sitting room and was now staring at him with that terrible, penetrating _look_ of his that made John feel even more ludicrous for lying there on the couch in his nighties.

"Why didn't you go to the memorial?" Sherlock demanded at last, words clipped, flat, precise.

John blinked, "I'm sorry?"

"There was a service for Major Charles Guthrie yesterday in Chelsea. You served together in Afghanistan."

"Sherlock—"

"You know as well as I what your triggers are, John. We both also know that running from them never helps."

John closed his eyes and turned away, and it was only then that Sherlock noticed the dark bags under his eyes, the pallor, the tremor in the left hand. How had he, Sherlock Holmes, missed this?

John sat up abruptly and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders slumped.

"Sherlock, can you get me my cane?" he murmured, "I need to go for a walk."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly, turned, and strode to the fireplace, against which leaned the dully glinting aluminum cane, a layer of dust coating its surface. He grabbed it with a barely concealed ferocity and jerkily handed it to John, who took it without eye contact, painfully heaved himself to his feet, and limped out the door.

Sherlock watched him go.

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><p>He wandered about quite aimlessly for a while, ignoring the stares and snickers at his odd combination of gown and loafers, finally taking a seat in Regent's Park, where he remained for a while on a bench beneath a tree by Boating Lake. He stared blankly at the ornate wrought-iron fence that edged the neatly trimmed lawn. Charles. Was dead. Charles, his mentor, brother, saviour. His leg ached, a dull throb now.<p>

Harry's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it for a good fifteen seconds. Then sighed and dug it out of his coat pocket.

_Child murder-homicide.  
><em>_Cat suspected._ _60 Valetta Grove._

_SH_

John stared. What else…?

He heaved himself to his feet and limped quickly out of the park.

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><p><em>Review! :D<em>


	3. Chapter 2

_Happy Sunday! I thought I'd change it up with this chapter. Hopefully, it's not too confusing._

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><p>Everything was a blur, muffled, smeared, clouded. He could hear distant wheezes, hisses. Where—? No, it was Charles at it again, must be. Charles and his nose. Though he didn't remember those snores ever being so—<p>

"John… John? Can you hear me, old fellow?" Charles's voice echoed down some distant tunnel. Sudden rough hands patted him on the cheek. He heard the scraping of chair-legs across rough ground.

He opened his mouth, which required a herculean effort on his part for it felt as if Charles had again taken the liberty of coating his lips with sap. Fully intending to employ some choice words of Pashto to convey his more-than-mild displeasure at being so rudely awakened, what came out instead was a garbled croak. At that, his eyes flew open, and what he saw was completely unfamiliar. Canvas, not solid concrete, formed the ceiling above his head, supported by scarred wooden beams. Weak sunlight filtered through the rough cloth, muting his surroundings in a dreamy fog. He suddenly became sharply aware of the hovering smell of antiseptic that lay heavy in the room-tent, a smothering blanket. What—

"John?" Charles's voice came from his right, and John reflexively jerked his head in that direction, but was rendered nearly senseless by the sudden, blinding lance of pain that ran through his left shoulder at the movement.

When at last the reflexive tears cleared, he saw Charles's dark, worried eyes hovering hardly a handbreadth away from his. Deep, dark shadows sank into sad crescent-moons under his eyes, emphasizing those prominent cheekbones and heightening the angularity of that Roman nose.

Now thoroughly confused, John blinked furiously, licking his lips and dry swallowing to clear his throat. "Where am I?" he whispered.

Charles sagged back into the chair by John's bed, running a weary hand through his dark hair. "You don't remember?"

John began to shake his head, but hurriedly checked himself, croaking a raspy, "No."

He met Charles's gaze. Those dark, steady eyes had always possessed a curious bottomless quality, where if he stared into them long enough, he could almost feel the chaos around him vanishing, fading into the background, as the steadiness of those murky pools extended a comfort that reminded him of their younger, sweeter days in Edinburgh. Now, they were empty. Bottomless still, but devoid of comfort, filled with uncertainty.

"What happened?"

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><p><em>What do you think? I've read through the original ACD canon, but I don't believe the BBC series got into very much detail about what happened over there. Not like the stories did, either... I just thought that this would be a good set-up for later chapters; the title of this, after all, is<em> Remember._ Do you want more of this back story? Less of it (and just get on with the darn thing)? Please let me know!_


	4. Chapter 3

_Happy Wednesday!_

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><p>The cab deposited him in front of a squat wooden house sandwiched between two towering tenements. John levered himself up the steps, nodding curtly to the constable out front, who blinked owlishly in return, then pushed open the door with a creak. It was terribly bright inside, and he squinted and blinked, slowly making out Sherlock's looming form in the far corner. John limped over and found Sherlock with Lestrade standing by two huddled forms on the dusty ground.<p>

"Do you know who they are?" he asked.

"That is of no importance," Sherlock murmured, staring vacantly out the window, a tiny crease between his narrowed eyebrows.

"We have a last name, is all," Greg shuffled through his notepad, glaring at Sherlock's cool dismissal, "Murray."

John froze.

Lestrade continued, "of the late Bill Murray, recently honorably discharged after seeing action in Afghanistan," he glanced up at a sudden movement, "John?" Then more urgently, "John? Are you alright?"

The doctor passed a trembling hand across his eyes. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" a voice filled with concern.

"Yes. Positive." John took a deep breath, "You were saying?"

Without turning from where he stood in contemplative reverie, Sherlock said, "Well, have a go, John. What can you say?"

John hesitated and met Lestrade's gaze. The D.I. glanced askance at the cane and bathrobe, and John flushed hotly, jerkily settling into a semi-crouch on the floor. These were the two children, he supposed, a boy and a girl, terribly mangled, covered with… claw marks?

"Yes John, what else?" Sherlock murmured.

John cocked an eyebrow and shook his head, then turned back to the bodies, running through his customary post-mortem ritual. "Severe post-mortem scarring is not the cause of death…" he opened the mouth of the boy, "Victims are between seven and eight years of age, and…" he blinked, staring into the boy's mouth, "there is significant mutilation of the pharynx that… appears to have been inflicted before death."

"Cause of death, John," Sherlock murmured again, eyes still distant.

He gently turned the corpse over and paused, "Severe internal trauma and bleeding." His left hand twitched involuntarily, and he clenched it into a fist.

There was silence as he checked the other body, noting the same mutilation of the throat, the lack of bruising around the neck, the bluish tint of the girl's face, "Asphyxiation. She was choked, not strangled." He grunted as he heaved himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Where is the rat?" Sherlock demanded suddenly, whirling away from the window, around the enclosed space, coat swirling, hands clenched, then stopping suddenly, eyes alight, "Oh… oh, oh!" He jabbed a pale finger into the air and dashed out the door without another word.

John watched him go, resigned.

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><p><em>Well? O.o<em>


	5. Chapter 4

_Is anyone else having major issues with logging in? Or is it just me? :P_

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><p>"What <em>happened<em>?" Charles's voice was filled with incredulity and just a hint of bitterness, deep underneath, "We were blown to pieces, that's what _happened_."

Flashes of stifling, searing sun. The crumbling dirt between his fingers. Razor-blades of grass.

John glanced up at Charles. His eyes were far away.

"We'd set up camp too close to the brush," Charles looked down and shook his head, staring hard at the ground, "In the end, it was a massacre. We'd had to withdraw almost five kilometers before we reached reinforcements in that village by…" his voice trailed off and he buried his face in his dark hands, "It was the Maiwand of this century. All over again," he whispered, "You'd come out from behind the walls to help us try and hold them back," he sat back abruptly, refusing eyes contact as that hand ran through his hair again, "you'd jumped up to help Alfray—he'd taken a bullet through the thigh—but then.." his voice broke, and he faltered.

John clenched his hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut. He remembered everything now with terrifying clarity.

_He spat the sand out of his mouth and shoved another magazine into his semi, back pressed to the rocky outcropping. He could almost laugh at the irony. The unit surgeon, trying to save the day with a machine gun instead of a scalpel. That would be a story for the ages. He'd had some qualms about leaving the wounded, but he was sure that Murray had everything under control. That was a good man, there._

_A sudden rat-tat-tat from his left, and an anguished cry. That was Alfray, the kid from North England. Instinct screamed for him to stay put, but surgeon's duty called louder. He slung the gun across his back and took a quick peek around the rocks. There were only about three meters of open space between him and Alfray. Gathering himself, he took a flying leap and rolled through a sudden hail of bullets, landing with a thump beside the boy, who was already pale with shock._

"_Easy, mate," he murmured, scanning the wound and smoothly snaking a tourniquet around Alfray's thigh. Right femoral artery, a handbreadth above the knee. Doesn't look good. He smiled grimly at the kid anyways, who was at this point semiconscious and delirious with pain and fright. There was a shout from behind him. Probably Charles screaming at him again for being so boneheaded. Who was he to say? Another shout, louder, clearer. What was it?_

"_JOHN! LOOK OUT!"_

_Reflexively reaching to his hip for the gun that was slung across his back, he jerked to his feet and found himself staring into the wide, startled eyes of an Afghani teen, a semi-automatic in his trembling hands. _

"_I'm a doctor," he said in Pashto, hands in the air, "I'm not—"_

_A single bang, and red blossomed across the kid's chest as he crumpled to the ground, eyes still wide, staring._

_He whirled around and saw Charles waving frantically at him from the rock outcropping._

"_Get into the village, John! There are too many of them!" his voice was distant and tiny even though they stood only meters away from each other._

_John crouched down, checked the tourniquet, and slung Alfray over his shoulders, staggering under the weight across the open ground._

_He almost made it._

_A single step away from cover, a grenade exploded no more than a meter behind him, sending him reeling, Alfray slipping from his grasp. As he struggled to regain his balance, he half-turned, facing the oncoming troops square on. An instant later, he heard, rather than felt, the bullet tear through his vest, shatter the bone, punch through the other side. He wasn't surprised in the least. A little misstep, and here he was, staring up at the smoke-cloud sky. Ears ringing, hotness spreading down his left shoulder. He had failed in his duty. Alfray could have lived if—_

"_JOHN!"_

_Charles smacked him in the face. Hard. Suddenly, he was being dragged backwards, towards the village walls, hauled to his feet despite his protests. He glanced back and saw the limp form of Alfray still out in the open. He thought he saw movement, an arm raised, before another grenade obliterated the sun again. The sturdy wooden door swung closed behind him, and then all he knew was pain. He sagged against Charles as the world spun madly, grey shadows leaping, looming, reaching out for him. He could see young Alfray's face, but Alfray was dead, wasn't he? Dead. _

_And it was all his fault._

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><p><em>Well? :D<em>


	6. Chapter 5

Sherlock wandered back to the flat at close to seven that night. John had fallen asleep on the couch by the roaring fire, still clad in his dressing gown, cane leaned up against the armrest. Sherlock stared at him for a moment as he hung his coat up and threw his scarf over the back of the armchair. He'd never felt this peculiar _emotion_ before. It wasn't anticipation (he knew full well what _that_ felt like), and it wasn't dread (not like he'd know how that felt, anyhow). It was somewhere in between.

He knew the evidence; he'd followed the trail. Speculation had become theory, and theory had become fact. _He_ had no doubt about his deductions, but as was always the case (and why he did what he did), no one would accept _his_ fact for any more than speculation without the presence of cold, hard evidence. This need appeared to be logical, but in truth, what could be less logical than needing to prove the validity of logic?

All this flashed through his mind for the hundredth time as he sagged into John's armchair, inaction the only course of action at this point. Or until John woke up from hibernation, that is.

The atmosphere in the little room had suddenly turned cloudy and smoky, close and pressing. John shifted on the couch and coughed, wheezing to awareness.

Sherlock sniffed. Was that something—

"Sherlock, your scarf is on fire," John bolted upright, eyes fixed on the fireplace.

Sherlock turned and yelped. Springing to his feet, he stamped at the creeping flames that snaked up his new cashmere scarf. John ran (not limped—the cane had not gone with him) to the kitchen, grabbed the coffee pot, still half full of the morning's coffee, and tossed the contents onto the growing fire, joining Sherlock in an impromptu jig to stamp out the remaining flames.

An unpleasant burnt-cocoa-bean smell remained in the air, and a matching stain on the smoldering rug added to the general barely-contained chaos that had settled over the room. John limped to the windows, and threw them open, ignoring the fact that this action sent papers flying across the room. Snatching a wayward leaflet back from its bid for freedom through the window, John tossed it back onto the desk, placing a tibia on it with far more force than necessary, turning to glare at Sherlock.

"I-" Sherlock began before he was interrupted by a hacking cough and a muffled curse from the hall.

They both turned to see Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stagger into the room, flapping his hand before his face.

"What… What on _earth_ have you two been _doing_?"

John and Sherlock glanced at each other, then at the spluttering, stumbling D.I. (who gave up on trying to glare at them both at the same time and settled instead for scowling at the sheepishly smoldering rug that emitted wispy tendrils of smoke in embarrassment), then back at each other.

And promptly burst out laughing.

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><p><em>Well? :)<em>


	7. Chapter 6

_Sorry for the wait!_

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><p>The nightmares were the worst during those first feverish weeks spent at Camp Bastion.<p>

Always a morphed form of reality, they greeted him every night with the same chattering gunfire, the same dreaded explosion that sent him staggering, Alfray slipping from his hands. And somehow, somewhere, Harry laughed the delirious choking giggle of her crazed, drunken stupor. She slipped from his arms, fell to the ground behind him, eyes wide, accusing, laughter abruptly morphing into a strangled cough as blood coursed from between her clenched hands.

"John?" she'd whimper, confused.

Then in that half-second, he'd be whirled around again, feel the bullet punch through his chest, reaching for Harry who had become Bill Murray, honest gray eyes always so trusting, now betrayed. Every hundredth of a second as he fell to the ground, he saw flashed before his eyes every person he had ever loved—childhood friends, blood brothers, lost patients. Everyone. He had failed.

For some reason, Charles would always be last, appearing there sprawled in the dirt the split second before John himself hit the ground with a jarring crash of shattered glass as the hazy world around him fractured and drifted away piece by piece, leaving only darkness, pain, and two whispered words:

_Your fault_.

He always woke up alternately screaming and sobbing, usually a combination of both. There'd be a little jerk on the thin rope between dream and sanity, and he'd be heaving for breath in the darkened tent, covered in sweat, shoulder throbbing. Charles would be by his side in an instant, a plastic cup of water in one hand, yanking on the lamp with the other. A few murmured words, a few sips, and a gradual sinking back into oblivion.

And everything would begin again.

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><p>Charles left two weeks after John clawed his way back to consciousness, returning to what was left of their unit. Fresh recruits arrived every day, strong and self-assured in their brand-new uniforms. As they hopped off the choppers, the wounded took their places, thin, listless, as creased and lined as their bandages. Everything could be felt through the thin canvas tent walls.<p>

His nurse was a wild, red-haired young woman named Jess. There had been scuttlebutt about her supposed involvement with the stolid Bill Murray, but John could not imagine anything further from the truth. He, however, never questioned her about it. War had drained all the questions out of him, leaving him an empty shell, as dry and dead as firefly husks, whispering away between spread fingers along with everyone else. To some extent, he felt that she, for all her wild ways and constant wide smile, somehow understood the pain, recognized that everything now was better left unsaid.

And for that, he was grateful, because when he woke up screaming again, she was there in place of Charles, a reassuring, lopsided grin on her face and a gentle hand on his back.

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><p>News would trickle back from the front, and he'd get some garbled bits about his old unit, which had been temporarily suspended from active duty. He was relieved. He needed Charles to live through this mess, to continue to be his brother, not just in arms, but simply a brother. A normal brother, just a little bit more than the playmates they had been as children.<p>

Was that really asking for so much?

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><p><em>As most of you probably know, I'm leaving for New York on Friday, so I'm not going to be getting very much up for the next couple of weeks. :(<br>Hopefully, this spur-of-the-moment chapter written when I should have been preparing for my upcoming conference will do until then...  
>Please let me know what you all think! :D<em>


	8. Chapter 7

As it turned out, Lestrade had called only to tell Sherlock that the official police coroner had completed the autopsy and had arrived at the same conclusion as had John (surprise, surprise!).

He had, however, found something strange.

Lestrade fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a clear plastic bottle, sealed airtight. A tiny, shriveled brown beetle lay curled up at the bottom. Sherlock snatched the bottle from Lestrade's hand, frowning at the innocuous, deceased arthropod.

John limped across the room and peered over Sherlock's shoulder. For the second time that day, he paled and blinked rapidly, complete shock written across his honest features. Visibly gathering himself, he turned and, muttering something about a chill coming in through the windows, snatched up his cane and busied himself slamming the windows shut.

Sherlock, oblivious, continued peering at the little glass vial. Lestrade's concerned gaze followed John as the doctor scurried around the room, knuckles white, face set. Sherlock suddenly whirled around the room, smacking the little glass vial down on the sofa between two seat cushions, where it remained, protruding sadly from the pillow-crack. The detective ran a pale hand through his hair, brow furrowed, muttering to himself as he bounced around the room. John, window-closing complete, ignored Sherlock in his own right and sank down onto the couch. The glass bottle, freed from its cushioned prison, skittered across the seat and plunked against John's thigh. He sprang to his feet in alarm, uttered a stream of violent Pashto, and limped from the room down the room, thumping down the stairs.

A bewildered Lestrade felt the last shreds of his sanity begin to slip through his fingers as Sherlock, who had suddenly stopped his infernal pacing and was now staring down the staircase, let out a short bark of laughter, eyes alight. Without another word, he seized his coat and scarf, then disappeared down the stairs after his flatmate.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stared at the empty room, the coffee-stained rug, the coffee pot at rest on a seat cushion, and finally at the shriveled little beetle that stared back at him through its glass prison. He sighed and reached for the bottle, holding it up to eye level and gazing contemplatively at its lonely occupant.

"It's quite alright, my dear fellow," he said seriously, "I'm sure it was nothing that you said."

Tucking the vial safely into his coat pocket, Lestrade set the coffee pot down onto a platter on the dining room table and ambled down the stairs.

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><p><em>Hi everyone-sorry for the delay. I thought I had everything handled after my New York trip, but real life served me a good one. A good friend of mine was arrested, and the story has been plastered all over the news for the past week, marking him as a lifelong criminal and generally destroying his life. For this reason, I probably won't be writing as much for a while-some things just lose their magic after certain events. This goes for both of my stories. I <span>will<span> finish them-I'm not going to leave you hanging-but right now, I'm just disgusted with everything that's happened. The above chapter was actually written almost a week ago on my flight back home and only semi-polished this afternoon. Thanks for all the support you've given me in my first adventures into this world of fantasy, and I'll be back. Eventually._


	9. Chapter 8

_I know that this is a slight deviation from canon, but I really didn't feel like sending John to India._

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><p>Grey shadows looming. Dazzling darkness blooming. Frozen, raging waves. There may have been a time when the bed didn't toss and turn, when heaving swells did not throw him around at the mercy of the wind, but when that was, he couldn't remember. He traveled back in time, burst into the future, but always returned to the pitching bed, the sheets clamped over his chest, ensnaring his legs. Always, always, there was a nagging unease in his mind, a niggling thought, a frowning clown, a monstrous typhoon, a—<p>

"—raging fire ant," John mumbled, shifting restlessly on the bed, hands grasping.

Charles glanced over at his feverish friend, glancing at Jess in concern.

"It's normal," she said.

"How long has he…" Charles gesticulated with a nervous hand, at a loss for words and actions, settling for running it through his hair.

"Almost two weeks," Jess replied, "He'll be fine in a bit."

"But _typhoid_?" Charles was still in shock, hand caught mid-way in his wild hair, "Wasn't he vaccinated for that?"

"Vaccines aren't infallible."

Charles groaned in frustration, tearing his had out of his hair, clenching it into a fist at his side.

"There's no need for you to worry, Charles," Jess said gently, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder, "The fever will run its course, and he'll be sent back to Queen Elizabeth's in a week or so."

"But he's so…" Charles stared at the pale form drowning in the bed sheets, "…_weak_. And thin. And ill. And so very, very _tired_ of it all."

"You let me worry about him," Jess murmured, tightening her hand on his shoulder, "You have so much more on your mind." With a strength that was surprising for a woman of her size, she forced him to face her. "I _swear_ I will get him through this little rough patch. And _you_ promise _me_, Major Charles Guthrie, that you will come back alive and whole, in both mind and body." The sudden violent whirring of helicopter blades shattered the silence. "Can you promise me that?" Jess demanded.

Charles pulled away, jamming his helmet onto his head. "Just take care of him, Jess," he growled. The whining of the chopper increased in pitch. An orderly poked his head into the tent and said that Major Guthrie was to come immediately, as the pilot had waited long enough at this unauthorized stop. They ignored him. Jess glared at Charles.

"I'll be fine," he muttered, turning to the tent flap, "I promise."

He stepped out of the tent, and under the full moon, Jess followed his silhouette as jogged to the chopper, signaling the pilot.

She suddenly realized she had no idea where he was going, rushed outside, and shouted after him, "Where will you be?"

A distant voice replied, "Marja!"

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><p><em>This is kind of a different chapter, so let me know if it worked or not.<em>


	10. Chapter 9

_I am terrible at this whole "regular update" deal, aren't I? Here's a (slightly) longer chapter to tide over anyone who's still reading this monster (and to belatedly celebrate season 2's long-awaited airing in the U.S.)!_

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><p>Hot under the collar. The short, staccato taps of the cane. His syncopated steps. Of course he knew what—rather, who—was at the bottom of this. How could he have missed it? Granted, he was no Sherlock Holmes, but… Murray. The very mention of that name should have put him on guard. He gritted his teeth in frustration as he limped down the street with no real destination in mind. It <em>had<em> to be him. It was time to call in some old favors.

He stepped off the curb into the street, lost in his thoughts. A sudden hand on his cane arm jerked him back onto the sidewalk, sending him staggering wildly backwards, his bad leg flaring in pain and sending him rushing towards the pavement. A strong hand gripped his shoulder—not the bad one—and saved him from ignominy. A cab roared around the turn, half a meter from his face. Heart hammering away, John whirled around, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Sherlock," he wheezed, and his eyes narrowed, "What are you—"

"—calling in some old favors," Sherlock avoided eye contact, hands stuck deep in his coat pockets, "Mind where you're going, John. Your preoccupation with Royland Smith might not be understood by today's cabbies."

John stiffened. Another cab shrilled by.

"Don't look so shocked, John," Sherlock muttered, glancing across the street, "You've been an open book this entire time. All it truly took was a half-effort on my part."

He took the bewildered doctor's arm and trotted briskly across the intersection, where he paused before a particularly shabby flat and gently placed both hands on John's shoulders, staring him directly in the eye, the lone streetlight throwing sharp shadows across his angular face. "Are you armed, John?" he asked in a low voice.

John blinked, slightly bewildered, and shook his head. "It's still in my—"

"Never mind then, John," Sherlock interrupted, "Wait here. Disregard whatever you hear or see, and do not let _anyone_ through this door, in or out." He indicated the shabby flat with a jerk of his head. "Understood?"

"Sherlock, what—"

"Wait here." With a matronly waggle of a thin finger, the detective swirled off up the steps and slipped into the flat, leaving John more than slightly confused. A growing sense of dread curled in his stomach. Sherlock had never cared to ask if he was armed before. What on earth was happening?

John absently plucked at the bits of fluff on his cable-knit jumper, the latest offering from Harry. He glanced anxiously behind him into the looming gloom of the flat, fidgeting with his cane. How much time had passed? One minute? Five minutes? He pressed his lips together. Armed or not, he was not having any of this nonsense. Glancing furtively up and down the now-deserted street, he had one foot on the door step when a loud crash came from within the flat. John stiffened as a hoarse cry followed, along with the sound of running footsteps racing closer and closer. He quickly levered himself up the remaining steps and set wide his stance, feeling slightly ridiculous as he gripped his cane as he would a cricket bat, steeling himself against what was coming.

In a rapid crescendo of sound, a dark figure burst out of the flat, and John swung his cane with all his might, hearing a loud _thump_ and a sharp _oomph_ as he made contact with the man's stomach. Another shape loomed out of the darkness, and John swung again, sweeping this man's legs out from under him. John glanced up just in time to find yet _another_ man charging at him, ferocity and desperation reflected in his eyes.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted as he swung again, "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS HAPPENING!"

The third man ducked under the blow, and John staggered backwards, swinging wildly, and missing again as the man leapt out of reach and the cane _thunk_-ed against the door frame. A sub-human roar, and John felt himself launched off his feet as the man tackled him around the waist.

It was only a moment of weightlessness, but John felt his cane slip slowly from his grasp as they arced over the doorsteps towards the sidewalk below. It was only a moment of weightlessness, but John fancied he could again hear the explosions around him again, the burden slipping from his grasp as he fell towards the ground. It was only a moment of weightlessness, and it ended far too soon when they hit the hard concrete below with a sharp _crack_, and the weightlessness disappeared along with everything else.

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><p><em>I WILL finish this thing. It'll probably be quite a long haul, but somehow, I'll finish. In the meantime, hit that spiffy new blue button down there and let me know how I've done! :)<em>


	11. Chapter 10

_It's still going. Advance apologies for any confusion. _

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><p>Charles stood at his bedside, lean and weary, a grim smile plastered across his face. He was out of uniform, clad in that dreadful cable-knit jumper of old, slacks neatly pressed, loafers spotless.<p>

"Hello, John," he greeted, with a slight twitch of his lips.

John opened his mouth to reply, but no words came.

"No worries, old chap," Charles said in response, "There's a long road ahead," he paused, "What am I speaking of? The Royal Mile? No," he shook his head, a rueful grin on his face as he struck a match against the stem of a pipe he had pulled from his pocket, carefully lighting up, then throwing down the match and stamping it out with a quick twist of his foot. It was a rough gesture, and there was some thinly veiled vague sense of _wrongness_ that caused John to open his mouth again, but again, no sound came.

Charles inhaled deeply and breathed out a cloud of heavy, hanging smoke, and he began speaking again. John's vision greyed, and the world darkened for a while before he struggled back to coherence. Jess's green eyes swam above his face, at sharp odds with her bright hair.

"Hey," she murmured softly, seeing him awake.

"Charles?" John choked out, eyes darting wildly around the empty tent, "Where?"

"Charles is fine, don't you worry," Jess replied, checking his IV and smoothing back the hair on his damp forehead. Her lips tightened as she felt the heat radiating from his skin, the shivering of the limbs beneath the sheets.

John felt his eyelids growing heavier, and the nurse's voice grew distant as her voice rose in question.

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><p>A sharp smack on his foot awoke him next.<p>

He startled to wakefulness, blinking in confusion as the rumpled figure of his sister loomed over him, a rolled up newspaper in hand.

"Awake at last, Johnny," she muttered, sweeping her bangs out of her eyes with an impatient flick of her wrist, "We've got _lots_ to talk about." She slumped back into her chair with a wretched screech of metal.

"What… What are you…" John spluttered, wincing as the effort drove jackhammers through his skull. That _blasted_ headache.

"I can't check up on my brother? Hmm?" Harry snorted, "You are such an _idiot_, did you know that? Nothing I ever say gets through that _bloody_ thick skull of yours. I'll bet you're not even listening to me right now, are you? Are you!" Her voice rose an octave, and John winced, turning away as she continued, "Go ahead, turn your back on me, Johnny boy. _Doctor_ John Watson. Get yourself out of _this_ mess, why don't you?"

"Harry, please," John whispered, bringing a trembling hand to cover an ear, curling up on himself, not caring that his shoulder cried out in protest. It was too much, too loud, everything was—

"John? John! Look at me, John!" a different voice, softer, but insistent. He recognized it.

"Jess," he mumbled, scrunching his eyes closed, "Why's Harry…" He trailed off as he again felt the tug of unconsciousness threaten to drag him under. It would be a relief from all this madness, the sudden apparitions, the pounding in his brain.

"John!" Jess shouted, nearly desperate.

His eyes flew open. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. He was alone in the tent with just Jess hunched over him, both hands on his shoulders. He gasped for breath and felt the tremors wrack his body again.

"How long?" he panted.

"Three weeks," she replied.

"Harry?"

Jess drew back, slightly confused, "_You're_ one to talk about facial hair. You could be—"

"My sister," he wheezed. The darkness was closing in again, the lightheadedness signaling the departure of sanity.

Jess frowned, "What about her?"

"She was—" he struggled for coherence, confusion clouding his mind, "She was…" He trailed off, eyes slipping shut, lips forming the final thought, a whispered _here_.

Jess straightened slowly, a growing dread niggling in the back of her mind. She glanced around the empty tent. John was the only patient in the room. He had been for over a month now. No one had come since Charles had left for Marja.

No one.

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><p><em>Was that <em>too_ mind-bending? Or was it (somewhat) coherent?_


	12. Chapter 11

_Short chapter... :\_

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><p>John woke with a start, arms flailing as he struggled for purchase. In his mind, he was still falling, falling, off the doorsteps, Alfray slipping from his arms. No. That was years ago. Many, many years ago. He had been outside a dilapidated tenement. With Sherlock.<p>

"Sherlock?" he shouted, glancing around him and recognizing the familiar sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

He currently lay sprawled inelegantly across the couch, and he levered his arms under him in order to raise himself into a sitting position. The room spun wildly, and with a sigh of resignation, he dropped back down onto his back, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing his head not to explode.

"Not the most intelligent of moves, _Doctor_ Watson," said a strangely familiar voice from behind him.

John sat bolt upright in surprise, whirling around. Something vaguely resembling a taxi cab in size and strength slammed into his brain, and he immediately dropped his head into his hands, moaning piteously. Loud thumping and angry voices swirled through his mind, and he felt himself being gently pressed back onto the sofa, eyes scrunched shut. As the pounding faded, the voices around him filtered through the cloud around his mind, slowly morphing into recognizable forms of speech.

"—was _bloody juvenile_ of you to have done that. What were you—"

"—It was not my _intention_ to frighten him—"

"—Then what _was_ your intention, Mycroft? Your _bloody_ dramatics—"

"—_You're_ one to be talking dramatics, Sherlock! You—"

"—Dramatics! _Dramatics_! _You're_ the one who _abducted_ him and called yourself my _mortal enemy_—"

"—That did no harm, contrary to whatever _business_ you had been conducting last night, which, might I add, landed him in this predicament—"

"—Are you blaming everything on _me_? How _dare _you—"

"Stop it, please," John mumbled, massaging his temples. The brothers continued, heedless of the rising volume of their voices.

"—You're letting your _emotions_ get the best of you, Sherlock. The doctor will be _fine_. You worry yourself—"

"—The man was tackled around the waist by a man twice his size. He was _unconscious_ for two hours, delirious for _three_. To add to it all, the moment he woke up, you frightened him so badly that—"

John pounded a fist on the couch. Bickering ceased immediately.

"Many thanks," he breathed, one arm still over his eyes. "If you could do me a favor," he continued faintly, "the next time you two decide to argue, please carry your conversation beyond a ten-meter radius of a concussed patient."

And so speaking, he turned gingerly over onto his side, placed a pillow over his head, and moved no more.

After a lengthy pause, the brothers turned to glare at each other once more.

"Why are you glaring at me, Sherlock?" Mycroft hissed.

"Why am I _glaring at you_? You have taken leave of your senses at last—"

A sofa cushion landed square in his face, followed by a muffled "OUT" from the couch. Mycroft turned away, ostensibly to blow his nose.

Sherlock tugged at his rumpled hair and stalked out of the room. Mycroft lazily gathered his umbrella and followed, but not before glancing over his shoulder at the now-peaceful figure on the sofa.


	13. Chapter 13

_I'm... back? But I'm leaving again on Friday. I'll write as much as I can!_

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><p>The air was close and thick. There was a quiet thrum of voices that had been absent before, the sound of many voices conversing softly. John blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to focus on the scene before him. Charles slept on, oblivious, in the chair by his bedside. His fatigues were rumpled and coated with a thick sheen of dust, his face streaked with soot. A young man stood beside him, tall and lean, face obscured by the fitfully flickering yellow lights. John squinted into the darkness that shadowed the young man's face, but could make nothing out. There was some nagging familiarity about him, however, an aching memory that cried for recognition. John turned back to the man in the chair.<p>

"Charles," he croaked, unsurprised by the faintness of his own voice.

His friend started from his sleep, hand going for the gun holstered on his ankle before realizing where he was. He whipped his head back to the bed to meet John's eyes.

"We must stop meeting like this, old chap," Charles rasped, wearily leaning in towards the bed and automatically reaching for the water pitcher on the nightstand, pouring half a plastic cup and offering it to John, who slowly eased himself into a sitting position, ignoring the pounding in his head.

"Thank you," he whispered, taking a sip and relishing the coolness in his throat. He sank back into his pillows for a while as Charles gazed at him with thinly veiled concern.

"How are you feeling?" Charles asked at long last, taking the now-empty cup from John's twitching fingers and tossing it into the litter bin under the nightstand.

"I'm fine," John replied automatically, eyes half-closed. Why had the conversations in the tent increased in volume? Everything was one loud, painful beat in his head, hammering away. He felt hot and flushed, though chills ran down his back.

Charles scoffed half-heartedly, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.

"Yes. Yes. Of course you are, John," he sighed.

John ignored the biting edge in his friend's voice, focusing instead on not allowing the water he had just drunk to make a violent reappearance. He could hardly hear Charles over the crashing din in his head.

"Who've you brought with you?" John said faintly, striving for conversation to assuage his friend's worries.

"Who?" Charles replied, slightly confused, "Some men from the unit were wounded, and they're all—"

"Noo," John slurred, struggling to raise his right hand, which flopped disconcertingly on the covers, "Who's that standing next to you?"

Charles glanced quickly behind him, thinking the worst, but saw no half-concealed Afghani suicide bomber, trigger in hand. "Nobody's here, John."

The tall, shadowed man John saw beside the chair opened his mouth and spoke, "Don't you remember me, Doctor?"

John's eyes flew open. "Who… Who—?" he stammered.

Charles stared at John, brow furrowed.

"Don't say that you've forgotten me already, Doctor Watson." The tone was flat, accusatory.

"I don't… know who—" John plucked feebly at his bed sheet, sweat beading his forehead.

"Don't you remember, Doctor? You tried to save me."

"John?" Charles half-rose from the chair, reaching for his friend, whose breathing had been reduced to shallow gasps, eyes staring emptily past him.

"No… You're dead!" John gasped, "You're dead. You can't be here!"

"I'm not dead, John," Charles said gently, "I'm right here."

"I _am_ dead, John. You know why I'm dead, don't you?"

"No, please," John breathed, "I'm sorry, I'm—"

"I'm going to get Jess, alright John?" Charles said urgently, "I'll be right back."

"I am dead because you killed me. You left me lying out in the sand when you could have come back for me."

"I know. I know_. I know_," John sobbed, "I _know_ it's my fault. I'm sorry, Alfray. It's all my fault."

The shadowed figure twitched, and in an instant was beside the bed, looming over John, blocking out the dim lights.

"You don't deserve to live."

"I don't. I know," John replied brokenly, choking for air, "I can't… I can't… _breathe_."

"You should die."

"I know." John gritting his teeth against the terror, the pain in his stomach, the pounding in his head. He just wanted to rest. To be gone from it all. "I'm sorry… Charles," he whispered, shutting his eyes.

A distant crash, a hoarse cry, then blessed, blessed darkness.


End file.
